Because Reasons
by Kitachi
Summary: What people think of Remus simultaneously surprises no one and everyone. The Marauders included. They realise exactly how much people actually like him. And it scares them, because he could be anywhere, yet he stays. After everything they put him though, he is still with them. The answer is always; 'Because reasons, alright? Now bugger off.' WHO IS MOONY GETTING OFF WITH, DAMMIT?


**Because Reasons.**

**Warnings: **Le content du sexual.

* * *

><p>Brown haired, green-eyed, tall, smart, kind, mysterious, and all together <em>fine<em> - is what females would say about Remus Lupin.

"He's always there to help, especially during exam season." The conversation would begin, followed by, "Very soft spoken, doesn't say much unless he has to." Because no, he wasn't one to mince words with people.

"Goes and visits his mum every month, you know." Another girl would chime in, the statement triggering sighs. He loves his mum, and even though that isn't the true reason for his monthly disappearances, he's just the type of person who really would do that sort of thing. And everybody knew it.

"He's so _devoted_ to her." A collective murmur of assent.

"Don't see that in men these days." One of them would begin.

"You're telling me." Someone else might point out, "Tits are tits, and to hell with devotion - you should hear them talking."

"He's not like that though." When they were eleven, he was noted to be the only boy who treated girls like people, rather than walking diseases. When they were twelve, he could be seen helping them out with things like homework and spells in class. When they were thirteen, Remus was one of the first to come to a girl's defence when one of his fellow males tried to bully them, citing that they only did so because they fancied her and they should bugger off if they had nothing better to do. When they were fourteen, he'd had a growth spurt - much like many other boys - but unlike them he didn't think much of it, and certainly didn't think he could command respect by it. And now at fifteen, Remus had quickly established himself as the local man-of-mystery; because he made friends with girls, had always made friends with them, and treated them like people, rather than a walking platter of hips, legs, breasts, and arse.

"Definitely not." They would all simultaneously smile at each other, knowing what they were all thinking, until one of them voiced exactly what needed to be said.

"Fit to boot." Puberty helped with that.

"Not bad looking. Those scars though." The moon helped with those.

"You love them." They would tease that one girl, "And you weren't saying that last weekend."

"Well he isn't wearing those trousers now, is he?" The tight pair of jeans he'd worn, so very different from the baggy things the other boys would wear (expecting girls to swoon). His style was not unique, but it was unexpected. As if he had no one to impress - even though he impressed them anyway.

"Rugged." Again, the scars. They were faint thanks to the help of magical remedies administered by the nurse. Remus is eternally grateful to Madam Pomfrey; for taking him in and accepting what he became every month without complaint.

"Black is much better." Well, plenty of girls (Evans; fellow prefect and long-time friend) would beg to differ. She would admit (under influence of Veritaserum) to a very embarrassing crush that lasted all of two years, before she realised Remus was more of a den-mother than a boy. Evans knew though, given the choice she would have him over Black.

A friend of the girl who had spoken would then giggle, "If you prefer blokes with better hair than you."

"I prefer my blokes with experience." The first girl would lift her chin, a mischievous glint in her eye, "Mind you, I wouldn't be against having a virgin if he looked like Lupin." Remus Lupin, if listening, might go red at that.

"Please. As if you could even get close." It isn't an insult though, rather it is said as if it were a fact of life. The sky is blue, the sun is warm, and girls don't know how to get Lupin's attention. "You'd have to compete with his Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook."

"And Black." After that, there would be a round of slightly wistful grins, and some scattered laughter.

* * *

><p>Quiet, bookish, strange sense of humour, doesn't play Quidditch, and bloody impossible to outwit - is what males would say about Remus Lupin.<p>

"Good for a laugh, that one." Most people who met him appreciated his dry humour and occasional sarcasm, so the conversation would start like that.

But then, someone else might jump in and say half-jokingly, "Yeah, when he gets his nose out of his books."

Much sniggering would ensue, though not so much at his expense, because moments after someone else would say, "Not a bad thing I suppose." And then there would be lots of grave nods, "If you end up in his study group you know you'll be right for exams."

"Thirty fourth-years being re-taught a years worth of DADA classes is what you call a study group?" Someone, probably a markedly foul-mouthed Ravenclaw, would say; because they had been there for second, third, and fourth year. It was only in first year when Remus, top of Defence class, began to review information and help out other students for their exams. After which many of them passed with flying colours (as opposed to the rest of the year group who had achieved below average results thanks to an incompetent teacher). That is to say, this was what began the yearly tradition of the three-week crusade prior to exams, wherein Remus and a group of his acquaintances (the number growing each day) would sequester themselves in a corner of the library and inhale as much information about the subject as possible. Remus had a knack for explaining things much better than any half-wit the Board of Governors managed to hire.

There would then be wry smiles all round at the Ravenclaw's comment, until someone else said what they all already knew, "Birds'd be all over him, if he didn't actually _believe_ they wanted to study." Since fourth year, the number of girls going to his study sessions had increased, and Remus is none the wiser to their ulterior motives. He was a bit naive like that.

"Go mad over his scars, the Gryffindors do." Some roll their eyes, while on the inside feeling slightly put out by it all.

"Love to imagine up a dark past for him."

"I reckon they'd be doing it even if he had no scars."

"D'you ever see them after he rolls his sleeves up?" One of them would ask, crinkling his nose up, "Look about ready to faint." A chorus of snorts, followed by, "And if half of them manage to keep their heads he goes and pushes his bleeding hair back or does some other _thing_ they all seem to like so much - and then they're gone." Many heads would shake in mock disbelief, because some had seen it happen before.

"Good thing he's got no idea about them though. Lucky bastard he is." While saying this they would all simultaneously feel relief, because _they_ were the lucky ones. It would be exponentially more difficult to pull if Lupin ever got his head around the fact that the women of Hogwarts had this underlying, universal attraction to him.

"Can't put a thing past him if you want to copy his essays, but a castle full of women?"

"If you don't need help, aren't made of parchment, or written by Quentin Trimble, then he's got better things to do." And they would all laugh heartily, because it was true. Though anyone who encountered him more than once could not help but think about the unsaid words that followed; _'Unless your name is Sirius Black.'_

* * *

><p>The common room is empty apart from two Gryffindor fifth years, on account of it being a Hogsmeade weekend. The first and second years, not allowed to attend, are all out nonetheless, enjoying the rare dusting of Scottish snow. The Marauders have been relegated to Hogwarts, a sick form of probation, by order of McGonagall, due to their "Senseless vandalism!" of the Quidditch pitch. Remus had of course participated in dyeing the whole thing red and gold and carving a snitch into the grass, but was the only one who had not <em>signed his bloody name<em> under it. He, rather than being punished, is donating his time by request of all the Heads of House in order to keep his friends in line. He is to "Make sure they don't set Gryffindor Tower on fire before tea time.", because even dragon ladies (ol' Minnie) need to have a lie in. Remus woke up early and had his breakfast with the rest of Hogwarts, about an hour previously. He still tastes chocolate pancakes - a side effect of quality food and heightened senses. Sirius on the other hand woke up five minutes ago, and after having brushed his teeth decided to go and bother Remus for a bit, because "Hogwarts is boring right now, and Remus is not."

'Let's draw on their faces,' Sirius suggests from behind the book Remus is trying to read. Their counterparts lay asleep like the dead upstairs, thanks to a late night detention with Filch. Sirius can fall asleep and wake up at will, so it doesn't bother him. Remus feels the couch sink in a bit, and another body settles down next to his. Sirius' pleasant cucumber conditioner assaults his nose, along with the scent of sweat and toothpaste. It is an odd combination, but much better than the nasty musk James has taken to wearing in his latest attempt to impress Lily Evans, or the too-rich fruity shite Peter always wears.

They proceed to exchange a back and forth, consisting mostly of Sirius trying to convince Remus to do something interesting, and Remus telling Sirius to be quiet or piss off. It results in Sirius acting increasingly like a spoilt child, and Remus getting a small head ache. In an attempt to keep him busy he tries one of the only things that might work; food. 'Why don't you go get some breakfast?' Remus is hopeful as he watches Sirius - it might give him time to hide the indelible ink. Then, as if registering his friend's expectations and deciding to spite them, Sirius shakes his head.

'Not hungry,' he says, and takes a breath to say something else, but then his face changes, 'But speaking of getting some...' Remus deflates, knowing he has brought this upon himself.

'That,' says Remus, giving up trying to talk Sirius out of being such an annoying child, 'Was terrible.'

Sirius, if he does notice, does not give anything away, 'We aim to please,' he replies with a wriggle of his eyebrows. Remus turns and hides a smile inside his book, because damn Sirius and his damn hilarious eyebrow dances. '_Moony...' _he sings into Remus' ear. When he is ignored, the sing-song voice turns into a gratingly girlish whine.

'_What.'_ Remus concedes.

'Give me another clue.'

Again with the badgering. As if Remus is ever going to tell them who he is getting off with. It would be a betrayal of trust, and Remus would never do that. 'Does she have blonde hair?' asks Sirius. The last clue he extracted was that Remus would never tell them anything. Today, though, Remus is feeling nicer. So he utters a resounding;

'No.' Because he has always preferred brunettes.

'Is she a Gryffindor?'

'No.'

'Ravenclaw?'

'No.'

'_Hufflepuff?' _Sirius grasped at straws.

'No.'

'_Slytherin!?'_ He is sure this is a rhetorical question, said out of shock, but Remus answers anyway.

'No.' Because it is kind of fun watching Padfoot squirm.

'Is she real?'

'Maybe.' And that is the end of that, because Sirius knows Remus has had enough. Sirius huffs, head coming down to plop on Remus' lap and body draping itself over the rest of the couch.

'Read to me,' he commands, crossing his arms over his chest. So Remus reads. He makes the book levitate in front of him, wandlessly, and conjures a cushion for his neck, and somewhere along the line Sirius closes his eyes and turns on his side. Remus reads right from the beginning, because that is just how Sirius likes it. He drops one hand onto the arm of the chair, and lets the other rest inside Sirius' hair, in the spot he likes being scratched in as Padfoot. Remus feels his wrist laying flush against the corded muscles of Sirius' neck and their pulses collide, skin to skin. He clears the sudden roughness in his throat, and lets his voice fill the room, rising above the comforting crackle of the fire and the sound of soft breathing.

* * *

><p>Coming down the stairs, James Potter is still wondering why he and Peter did not wake up with any of their limbs missing, or all of their hair shaved off, or <em>anything<em>. It was unlike Sirius not to take this day as a golden opportunity to get back at him for the Drunken Mistletoe incident, which he had been paying for since last Christmas - nearly twelve months ago now. The fact that James has been left unharmed this morning after sleeping in for over _three__ hours _can be put down to either divine intervention, or the next best thing - Remus Lupin. Remus turns his neck, looking at James over the back of the couch and motioning with a finger to his lip to _be quiet_. James walks around to the front of the couch now and is somehow not surprised to find the sleeping form of Sirius Black sprawled over Remus' lap. James quirks his eyebrow, though, at the sight of their attached hands._  
><em>

He takes a moment to observe Moony and Padfoot. Poony and Madfoot. Pady and Moonfoot. His friends. Moony; his shoulders relaxed, his face for once resembling someone their own age and his guard undeniably down (in _public),_ for the first time in a long time. Padfoot; the recently semi-permanent wrinkle in his brow gone, his breathing steady, his limbs utterly still - rather than always reaching out for something, _anything_. They make each other better, James thinks. Not like how Remus makes them _all_ better, by being kind and fiercely loyal, not like how James makes Peter better by believing in him, not like how Peter makes Sirius better by keeping him down on Earth, and _nothing_ like how Sirius and James make each other better by tolerating each other for hours at a time when no one else will. It is a different sort of better. The kind of better that James sometimes feels when he and Lily bump into each other and manage one of their confusing conversations - the ones that go on for an hour when they originally intended to exchange pleasantries. They feel confusing because they are usually in private, and no insults are exchanged, and James never gets around to asking her out because he is too busy being fascinated by how smart and wonderful their conversation is. This is the kind of better that Moony and Padfoot make each other; the strange, vulnerable kind of better that James has only ever felt with _Lily_.

James comprehends this all as Remus uses his unoccupied hand to brush some hair away from the sleeping boy's face, with an uncommonly soft smile on his own. And James wonders if they know anything yet.

* * *

><p>A cool winter breeze filters through the Astronomy Tower's doors and windows. It is late. A bit after curfew actually. Prefect rounds should be in full swing right at that moment, but Sirius does not care. The prefects never check the seldom-used classroom space anyway. And not to put too fine a point on it, Sirius is horny. The dorms are filled with studying students, snoring best mates, and the very definition of the violation of his inalienable right to privacy: James Potter. <em>Nosy-arse git.<em> He "Will not have some random bird inside the dorm, especially while we are on probation!". Bloody James and is bloody fucking need to impress bloody Evans. A quick glance at his surroundings tells him they are safe. Himself and - what had her name been?

The nervous Ravenclaw girl Sirius has convinced to come with him follows silently behind as the ascend the stairs. The air is rent with a gasp from somewhere above. Sirius turns to see the girl jump and clamp a hand over her mouth. He rolls his eyes. The little-known spot is already taken, clearly. The girl looks queasy and shakes her head apologetically. The chance to snog Sirius Black is not worth losing points and respect from her house-mates over. He knows what she wants before she opens her mouth, and with a frustrated sniff he waves her off. How is he supposed to get off now? Silencing charm on his four-poster's curtains is his best bet, he concludes. Thoughts of needing to wait for lights out and available reading material are shoved out of the way when a breathy moan reaches his ears. Because that voice, that unique timbre belongs to -

His feet move lithely, soundlessly, and he finds himself unable to turn back. Sirius Black is entranced.

Tawny brown hair rests on his head, a tussled halo. It is thrown back as he is pressed into a wall, a pair of hands working inside his pants. The hands do not belong to him. His eyes, pale green, are hidden under heavy lids. He breathes in ragged gasps and sighs. Sirius watches as he pushes his hips forward to meet the hands thrust by thrust. He is a boy - a man - Sirius needs to remind himself, and men are not supposed to be beautiful. But he _is_. His simple and uncomplicated flush, his lip pulled between his teeth, sweat pooling on his neck - men should _not_ be this beautiful - Remus should not be this _beautiful_. And yet he _is_.

It is that terrifying thought that makes him back away, makes him slide down the stairs. When clear of the Tower, he runs. Only when he reaches the portrait of the Fat Lady does he stop, and only then does he realise that the hands belonged to a boy. A surge of blood southwards follows this thought.

The dormitory is quiet; more time has passed than he anticipated. Lights are out. Sirius pants softly as he strips into his boxers, there is an urgency about his actions that anyone could see if they looked. Soon, the curtains are closed and silence falls, because he cannot risk being heard tonight. His hands descend to stroke his cock. Sirius finds himself closing his eyes and what he sees almost finishes him. It is a play-by-play of Remus getting off with a stranger. Movements becoming jerky, Sirius continues to pull and rub the ache between his thighs. He is close, so stunningly close - and he knows what to do now. Through the gap in his parted lips he whispers, '_Remus.' _A tensing of muscles, and an explosion of heat (among other things) later and it is over.

Sirius lays on his bed, sinking into the mattress in hopes that he might be swallowed up, never to see the light of day again. Nothing happens. He never had much use for hope, anyway. It is shame and disgust that bubbles up from somewhere previously unknown, coming unbidden, that makes Sirius clean himself up and attempt to sleep.


End file.
